


the obeisance of memory

by enkelior



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Amnesiac Dean Winchester, Fix-It, Gen, Season 4 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-08-22 21:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16605551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enkelior/pseuds/enkelior
Summary: AU of season 4."Look, I've got no idea who your brother is, but uh, I think I might be him. Just, y'know, alive."





	1. Who can say for certain

**Author's Note:**

> Finally uploading it here. Story's complete, will shoot for posting a chapter every few days or so. Hope you enjoy! Reviews and kudos all appreciated :)

  _Sam._

When he opens his eyes, he's struck by the _wrongness_  of it all.

...He's not all too clear what he means by that, exactly. The feeling just pervades all over – his legs, his arms, the tip of his nose. It's almost like a tingle, or an itch. He just knows it's there.

Whatever it is is quickly forgotten a moment later, however, when he's rather more struck by the immediate need for air.

As it turns out, that need is surprisingly difficult to satisfy – although he's not sure why he's surprised, since he hadn't been particularly expecting anything in the first place. It isn't like there was anything  _before_.

…If there was even a before to begin with.

Somehow he knows he's supposed to fight, though; he flails his arms and they hit something hard ( _wood_ , his mind supplies helpfully). He tries to shout for help, but nothing escapes his throat except for a scratchy cry that doesn't sound like him at all… he thinks. Probably.

Everything's black - or just dark, maybe? He can't see a thing, is what it comes down to, and he quickly realizes there's no one to hear him either, so there's probably no help on that front.

By now he's starting to panic a little more, but he feels pretty entitled to it – lack of air just has that effect on a person, and it doesn't help that he's inside… wherever he is. His fists continue to beat instinctively against the wood , harder and harder, and then there's a sound like something cracking.

He barely has time to think  _hope that wasn't me_ before his world collapses.

* * *

 

Bitterness fills his mouth and nostrils when he tries to inhale.

This isn't a metaphor, by the way – the acrid taste is almost overpowering as something powdery and rough and soft all at once feels like it's trying to enter him any way possible. And fuck if that doesn't sound dirty, but that's just how it is.

From there on, it's a mindless struggle up. Some vestige of instinct flares and tugs him in what must be the right direction, because after an eternity of plowing so hard his fingers bleed and his arms ache, just as black spots invade his vision and a smartass part of him thinks distantly  _well, that didn't last long_ , his hands suddenly find nothing to fight against.

For one entire, incredibly  _dumb_ second, he actually  _stops_ ; actually panics that it's over, that there's no more up to be found. Then his lungs remind him that hey, on short lease here, and he calls himself an idiot and gets back to the business of working his way free – otherwise known as trying to survive more than several pitiful minutes in what seems to be a pretty nasty world.

That's actually a lot harder than it sounds. His oxygen-starved arms feel heavier than a baby boomer each, so he has to use his oxygen-starved legs to somehow push himself up, and all the while his head is spinning frantically like a seriously amped-up Ferris wheel. But finally a breeze ruffles his hair, then brushes against his eyelids, then his nose and his mouth and for God's sake just  _do it already_  –

He breathes in; a ragged, loud gasp. The air tastes sweeter than the finest beer, the prettiest woman, the best chocolate. Not that he can remember the last time he's had any of those, but oh, the comparison is apt enough without haggling over details.

He lets his mind blissfuly blank out for a couple of seconds, then hauls himself up and out of the earth.

…Wait.  _What?_

He stumbles to his feet and looks down at himself, squinting in the sunlight. His clothes are mussed and covered with dirt and earthworms, his skin is smeared with brown. He's standing in the middle of what basically looks like ground zero, trees and posts all bent out in a circle as if by some weird shockwave, except here and there he can see some grass and huh, there's the little hole in the earth he must have come from... except just a minute, that doesn't make  _sense_.

Did he really just dig himself out of the _ground_?

There's a large, haphazardly-built wooden cross in the corner of his vision. He turns to stare.

It takes him a moment to figure it out. A grave.

This is a grave.

...Apparently,  _his_ grave.

 _Holy shit_ , his brain says bewilderedly.  _I think I'm a zombie_.

* * *

…He doesn't  _feel_ like a zombie. His skin – well, what he can make out under the dirt, anyway – looks a rather healthy tan/pink, and it feels pretty attached, not sewed on or anything (although maybe he's getting his legends mixed up, but who cares). He checks his face, and everything's there that's supposed to be there, he's pretty sure, eyes and nose and mouth and ears.

Maybe he's a ghost, he muses, except he doesn't think ghosts need to break open their caskets and manually dig themselves out of their graves. Lucky bastards.

His stomach growls. He waits hopefully for a second, but no matter how hard he tries he can't detect any particular hunger for brains. His throat's pretty parched too, but it doesn't seem to be craving blood or cerebral spinal fluid or anything apart from maybe water.

Which honestly comes as a bit of a relief, as he isn't really emotionally prepared to devour anything bigger than a sandwich. Though it still leaves him the slightly alarming question of  _what the crap_ am  _I?_

He walks around the disturbed earth in order to look more closely at the cross (grave marker, really, it doesn't look as if the person who built it gave a flying fuck about what a cross should look like), hoping for a clue of some kind as to who he's supposed to be. There isn't any writing or anything useful however, not a date or even an inscription to suggest that somebody gave a damn about the poor shit buried six feet under.

That's pretty sad, he thinks as he runs a hand through his hair. If that's the grave of the person whose body he's using, the guy must have led a pretty crappy life.

Wait, no.

I _must have led a pretty crappy life_ , he corrects himself, then stops, says that again aloud. Feels out the words.

…Nothing. He waits cautiously, stares intently at the cross as if that might speed things up, but not even a glimmer of that crappy life flashes before him.

This might as well be someone else's grave.

Maybe it is, he thinks distantly, except it makes even less sense to rise from someone else's grave than from your own, so he decides to stop wondering and just get on with being whatever he is, zombie or not zombie.

He starts walking. It's hot; sweat burns tracks through the dirt on his face. When he takes off his jacket (well,  _someone's_  jacket anyway) soil falls from it to the ground as if it had been an extra lining. He wraps it around his waist like a true 80's kid, wondering as he does what year it is, because he sure as hell doesn't know.

Maybe not the 80's though.

He takes in the view around him since, well, not much else to do as he's walking. The world is pretty, he supposes, but the scenery gets old, and fast – at least twenty minutes pass before he sees anything other than trees and dirt and a pale blue sky, and that's just a stupid squirrel.

Bumfuck, Middle of Nowhere. Heck of a burial ground, he thinks acidly. There isn't even another grave for company - let alone another alive-but-previously-dead-person, for that matter. Someone must have  _really_  hated his guts.

Or, you know, whoever's guts he has.

* * *

Eventually, he comes across what he decides more than makes up for the lousy squirrel – a gas station or a tourist spot, something like that. He doesn't really care for the details.

…He doesn't really care that it's locked, either.

Because come on, he could have been a frigging  _zombie_  – breaking and entering, stealing, it's all really nothing when pitted against the prospect of snacking on brains. He should be given a damn medal for not eating anyone, really. Not that there's anyone around to talk to, let alone snack on - but hey, if there was he wouldn't be eating them. He should totally get points for that.

Really, the world should be grateful.

He makes for the water bottle section like a zebra to a water hole. Or a camel to an oasis. Some kind of cool African mammal to some kind of water place. Either way, the speed he's going is almost superhuman (well, not literally, he doesn't think)

Water, he thinks, tastes even better than air.

He snags some candy bars – so at least he knows he's had candy at some previous life/incarnation/whatever, because he instinctively knows that objectively Three Musketeers are so-so, Crunch is all right, and Twix rocks harder than Kurt Cobain (okay, so apparently he knows who Cobain is, too) – into a plastic bag, and after a moment of consideration throws in some nuts and a couple of power bars, mostly just to appease the nagging voice that tells him sugar can only get him so far. He stops after putting in a bag of chips, because hey, he doesn't want to ransack the place. He might not have a penny to his name–or any compunction whatsoever about stealing– but he does have a heart.

...Probably has a heart. Something is pumping blood through his body, and it is probably a heart.

Anyway. He makes his way to the cash register, chomping down on a Crunch, and decides that chocolate tastes way better than water, actually.

It doesn't take very long to figure out how to open the register. He takes all the fifties and twenties they have – which isn't a friggin' lot – and most of the tens. Leaves the rest, because he's such a damn softie. Although to be honest, he's not really sure what'll happen if he does get caught by the cops – what, are they gonna lock up a dead guy? Worst they can do is put him in a psych ward for having amnesia or Alzheimer's or whatever he has. Dead man's disease? Is that a thing?

Things to ponder at a later time.

He's just about to close the register – seriously, he is – when the loudest ringing he's ever heard (which okay, he's already established to not mean much) threatens to burst his eardrums. The sound's so high and grating it's practically physical – the door slams against the wall as it opens and closes, the windows shatter, and the little TV in the corner flickers on and off as if some damn kid is playing with the remote.

He instinctively throws himself to the floor, hands over his ears and eyes squeezed shut.

But the deluge ends, as quickly as it begins. He stays on the ground for a couple of seconds, but nothing happens so he gets up slowly, staying out of sight of the windows at first. There's nothing outside, no matter how hard he stares outside, ready to hit the deck in case of another cosmic freakout.

Which is the only thing he can think of to explain… whatever just happened.

The bar for weird is set pretty high when you start out life in a grave, but he's thinking that this just might take the cake.

* * *

Four hours, three Twix and a bag of chips into his search for civilization, Not-a-Zombie's thinking very longingly of the crappy blue car parked back at the gas station. On second (third, fourth and thirtieth) thought, maybe he could have figured out how to hotwire it after all. Alarm, shmalarm. What exactly had he been thinking when he'd decided to walk?

He's still stuck in that train of thought when he walks past the sign of  _Pontiac_ _, 2 miles_. He thinks about it when he walks past the sign of  _Welcome to Pontiac!_ , and he continues to dwell on it even when he actually sets foot into Pontiac, Illinois itself. Because really, what's he going to do when he finds civilization – he pointedly ignores the buildings around him as well as the realization that civilization, in fact, has already been found – he can't go on stealing from abandoned gas stations forever, and dead or not, he's got no clue who he is, so even if he isn't 'officially' dead (considering how out-of-the-way Bumfuck was, some hick probably shot him by accident and gave him a quick, thoughtless burial), it's not like he can make use of it.

Point is. He's alive, but damn if he knows how to stay that way.

Not-a-Zombie's legs seem to know something he doesn't, though, as they lead him in the direction of what must be the dodgiest diner ever. Catching a waft of the smell from the place, he guesses that grease is probably pretty prominent on the menu, but for a cheap first meal he supposes it's a pretty decent start.  _Good going_ , he compliments his feet.

They don't reply, but that's probably a good thing.

There don't seem to be many people inside, which is just fine with Not-a-Zombie. As he settles into a booth, bag of candy still in his hand, he gets a surly look from a stick of a woman wearing a short pink dress with a white apron.

"Can I get you your order?" she snipes nasally as a greeting, and he stares helplessly in fascination as she bites at the lipstick-smear that is her mouth. Because wow, it's a human that's not him and that's just, that's just cool. After all this time, a real live person.

...Who looks like she's trying very hard not to breathe.

His first human interaction, and already it's not going well. Maybe he should rethink the eating brains thing. "Well uh, can I…" he stops, sniffs, wrinkles his nose. Something  _reeks_.

Oh.

"Actually, hold that thought. Got a bathroom?"

* * *

His walk back from the bathroom is a lot more cheerful than his walk inside. He's a handsome son of a gun really, once you got rid of the mudslinging-monkey look, and he might have gone a little crazy with the water, maybe, but feeling halfway clean is definitely worth it.

His new waitress – apparently there was a changing of the guard while he's been gone, thank God – seems to agree with him, since she's currently beaming at him over his menu with the look girls should probably just reserve for puppies. Maybe girls like the baffled look, or maybe it's just this one who enjoys it when guys squint at their greasy menu in total confusion. Either way, he's definitely going to need to step up his game in the future; being suave probably feels a lot more dignified.

For now, though, he has other worries on his mind - the main one being that he has no idea what to order.

Funny, right? But he has no idea. None. Zip. It's ridiculous. 

Cheese fries? Pancakes? He has no clue what he likes. The images pop up in his head like from a catalog, picture perfect, but nothing accompanies them - no disgust, no anticipation, there's just -

There's just nothing.

He frowns, something in his gut twitching uncomfortably. He's never been at a loss before; the feeling is foreign and utterly unpleasant.

Because it just seems... wrong. It  _is_  wrong, right? Shouldn't there be some kind of instinct helping him out with this? Something, at least, that tells him  _these are your favorite_  or  _this sounds good_ or  _try this, it_ _will definitely taste awesome in your mouth?_

There shouldn't be this blankness.

"Would you like another minute? I can come back," the waitress says, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She seems a bit less charmed but somewhat more sympathetic, as if she can literally see his helplessness growing. "...Sir?"

"Sam," he tells her automatically. He blinks, surprised at himself, then says slowly, "... Jackson. Sam Jackson," all natural and suave-like, as if he hasn't come up with it just this minute.

The corner of his mouth lifts. Oh, he's  _good_.

She grins at him. "All right, Sam Jackson." She stresses his name subtly, like it's their own inside joke. He kinda likes it. "You want help narrowing it down?"

This woman is rapidly becoming his favorite person in the world. "Oh please," he says in relief.

Her eyes crinkle at the corners. "Okay. We've got plenty of lunch specials here, and obviously I'm obligated to tell you that they're all fantastic." She gestures at the menu expansively with her pen, and after a moment whispers confidentially, "They're really not."

He finds himself enjoying this. "I'm not willing to settle for anything less than fantastic," he says gravely. "What are my options?"

Her smile widens. "Today you got two. Local favorite, our famous chicken sandwich. My favorite, spicy hot buffalo wings. Especially good if you're hungry," she adds as she looks down at him. "But both are extremely fantastic."

"I, uh…" The newly-named Not-a-Zombie stares at the menu for a couple more seconds, then gives up. "All right, you convinced me. Go for it." He leans back happily, decision made, and hands her the menu.

She takes it perplexedly, then prompts, "So what will it be?"

"What you said," he says cheerfully. "I'm down."

She frowns. "Down for what?"

"Sandwich, buffalo wings," he elaborates. "You know. Those fantastic things."

She blinks. "You mean - you want both of them?"

"I'm all about fantastic," he says firmly.

She shakes her head, looking amused again. "All right," she says dubiously, eyebrows lifted as she makes a note on her little notepad. "Well, would you like anything else with that?"

…Crap.

* * *

Curly fries are the  _shit_ , Not-a-Zombie (aka Sam Jackson) decides. And if curly fries are the shit, then barbecue sauce is definitely… okay, not going there.

Still. Curly fries are good.

"Freaking delicious," someone says in the booth behind him, and he can't see them but he's pretty sure they're agreeing with him.

Beth, the gorgeous, generous, let-me-go-get-you-an-extra-plate hot little number from before, walks up to Sam's booth and smiles prettily. "Enjoyed yourself?"

"You could say that," he answers, flashing her a contented grin.

She raises an eyebrow, gaze passing over the ravages he left of his lunch, the conquered wings and the newly-clean tub of sauce. "Wow. That... that has to be some kind of talent."

"Well, you know," he says. "First meal of the day," life, "and all that."

She gives him a chiding look. "You shouldn't overdo it, you know. You're probably about to explode."

"Oh no," he's quick to reassure her, patting his belly. "Trust me, plenty more room here."

Beth laughs, shaking her head, and takes out her writing pad because she's a doll. "All right, well. I'm almost afraid to ask, but is there anything else you might like?" she says, pushing an auburn strand behind her ear. "Coffee, dessert maybe?"

Oh God. "What do you have?"

"Chocolate mousse, fruit bowl, strawberry shortcake... but you don't want any of those."

It's his turn to look amused. "I don't?"

Her eyes twinkle. "Not today, you don't. Today's a good day for homemade apple pie," she says, then pauses. "Although seeing how you're... that it's pretty hot out today, well, you might want to go with the sundae."

A nice way of saying he's sweatier than a pig. "Hmm," he says.

After just a moment of waiting – jeeze, she's getting used to him – she hints, "The sundae's pretty popular."

"I'll get that, then," Sam Jackson says immediately, relieved, and she nods before disappearing to the kitchen.

Although… this  _is_ his first meal.

"Hey, Beth?" he calls out, and when he sees her poke out her head through the door, he flashes a grin. "Bring on the pie!"

There's a loud clatter from behind him. He ignores it - although seriously people, clumsy - and just waits patiently like a good new human being who's never had dessert before.

It'll probably be a while, but then, there are plenty worse ways to spend the first day of your life.

So. Sam Jackson, huh? He considers the name from all angles, decides he likes it. It's a good, forgettable name, and it'll let him blend in with all the normal not-previously-dead people. Plus there's just the way it rolls off the tongue. The only thing left is to decide whether he'd rather be called Jackson or Sam, because he likes Sam but going by your last name's pretty cool.

It's a pleasant kind of decision to make.

"Is this supposed to be  _funny_?"

He jumps and looks back to the seat across from him, frowning when he sees that some scowly man with hair has settled himself in it.

"Uh…" Jesus, the guy's tall. "…No?"

"What are you? Shapeshifter? Revenant?"

He blinks. "Reve-what?"

Scowly slams his hands on the table so hard a plate actually falls off it. He looks furious, like he's so mad he can barely manage the delicate act of speaking. "How  _dare_  you," he snarls, half-standing, nostrils flaring.

"Hey!" Sam protests, bending over to pick up the plate, wincing as he looks at the floor. Poor Beth is not going to like him anymore after seeing this mess. He does his best with the paper napkin he's got. "Dude, trying to eat lunch here! Get your own table!"

"Your lunch can wait," the guy growls, looking dangerous and a little constipated, as if only the fact they're in a public place is preventing him from skewering Sam on the spot. "Why do you look like him?"

He fidgets uncomfortably. It's probably too much to hope that this is just a hey-you-look-just-like-the-guy-from-my-favorite-soap! kind of deal. "Like who?"

Angry green eyes narrow. "My brother."

Shit. He flashes his teeth. "Well, I guess I just have one of those -"

"My  _dead_ brother."

 _Fuck_.

"Listen, ah…" Scowly just glowers at him, making Sam wince. "…You. This is gonna sound a little weird, okay, but you gotta believe me when I say I'm not crazy." Not unless this entire day is a freaking hallucination.

Which, considering this is the only day Sam Jackson remembers, could lead to some very interesting metaphysical questions.

Scowly doesn't move, although his forehead wrinkles. He's not killing him on the spot, though, so Sam takes it as a good sign.

"So, uh, I woke up this morning," Scowly gives him this deadpan look as if to say 'and what does that have to do with me killing you dead?', so Sam quickly adds, "inside a grave."

...Yeah, that sounds totally normal.

"It was a couple of miles north of here," he rushes on, as if that might make it better somehow. "Pretty out of the way place."

He stops and waits for a second, but somehow Scowly's not laughing at him – or impaling him with a fork, for that matter. Which, taking into account how incredibly nuts Sam sounds, might actually mean that Scowly's the crazy one. Who's crazier, after all, the madman or the idiot who believes him?

Again, things to think about  _later_.

Still, choosing to be encouraged by the current nonviolence, he puts his hands on the table, trying the best he can to convey sincerity and also  _pleasedon'tkillme_. "Look, I've got no idea who your brother is, but uh, I think I might be him. Just, y'know, alive."

"That's impossible," Scowly frowns.

He sighs, slumps back. "I knew you'd say that."

"You- my brother's been dead for months. Even if he did get... raised from the dead, his body would -" Scowly stops, looking like he suddenly got a bad case of indigestion.

"Oh. Maybe I'm not him, then," he says, a little disappointed, because even if Scowly is a scary sonuvabitch, it'd be pretty cool to run into his brother – anyone who knows him, really – after just a morning of wandering around aimlessly (even if it  _was_  a bitch of a wander).

Though what did he expect, really? It's probably more of a coincidence than he can hope for.

Scowly blinks, as if that had been the last thing in the world he'd expected Sam to say, but just then Beth comes in. "Here's your sundae," she says with a lovely smile, putting down a bowl, "and here," she sets another one next to it, "is your apple pie."

Sam breathes through his nose, thinks he might die from sheer pleasure. "You're a goddess, sweetheart," he says, meaning it more than he's ever meant anything, ever. Which, all right, maybe doesn't mean much right now, but you know, that kind of thinking gets old after a while.

"You're welcome," she beams back, then glances at Scowly. "Oh, you two know each other?"

Scowly sends her a flat look. "Yeah."

"Where's the girl you were here with?" she asks, obviously trying to make polite conversation, and Sam mentally gives her points for not running away screaming - because God knows if Scowly was glaring at  _him_  like that he'd be very seriously contemplating the option.

Strangely enough, Scowly shoots Sam an almost nervous glance before turning back to Beth. "She had to leave," he says coolly, clearly too much of an asshole to appreciate her heroic attempt to be nice.

"Oh," the smile she gives him looks forced, but when the waitress turns back to Sam the expression turns genuine. "Well, in any case, here's the receipt. Enjoy your dessert." She waits for a bit, then says in this super-casual way, "Hope to see you around, Sam."

He grins at her through a mouthful of ice cream – he's willing to bet his stolen money that there's a phone number on the back of the check. It really is too bad he doesn't have a phone. "Hope to be around," he replies playfully after a swallow, and when she leaves the booth he catches her grinning.

There's this little almost-grunt right then, and reminded of his unfriendly companion, Sam turns with a sigh, only to see Scowly look like he's just gotten hit by a truck and isn't sure whether to call AAA or an ambulance.

"'Sam'?" the guy repeats, voice oddly strangled.

Oh. Right. "My name," he explains, not a little proudly. "Well, my made-up name. Thought of it on the spot." He grins. "Sam Jackson, at your service."

For a long moment, the other man just looks at him.

"Dude," he says in annoyance, after a minute rolls by. "Anyone ever teach you that it's rude to stare?"

Scowly starts, but then he curls his lips and shuts his eyes and makes this noise that could maybe pass for a laugh, if you weren't too picky about what laughs should sound like.

"Only you would name yourself after Samuel Jackson," Scowly says, oddly hoarse, slumping back on the seat and covering his eyes with a huge hand.

"Hey, he's cool," Sam says defensively, helping himself to another spoonful of ice cream. Then the metaphorical lightbulb lights up over his head, and his eyes snap up and away from the sundae. "Wait, does that mean you believe me?"

Scowly eyes him for a minute, expression unreadable, then stands. "Get up. We're going."

Uh. Okay. "Where to?"

"A friend."

Geeze, that was all nice and specific, Sam thinks. But it isn't like he has anywhere to go, really, so he just sighs resignedly.

"Can I at least finish the pie first?"


	2. maybe you're still here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Not-a-Zombie/Sam Jackson finds out his name and goes on his very first road trip.  
> It kind of sucks, at first.

It looks like a shiny metal death trap.

He  _totally_  doesn't care.

"Dude, that is awesome!"

"Yeah, actually-"

"You have a car!" He opens the door and climbs in the passenger seat, settling in with a great relieved sigh. "Ack, this is - this is friggin' amazing, do you realize how many miles I've had to walk just to  _get_ to this crappy town? I think I've got blisters on my  _blisters_."

Scowly gets in from his side, his movements all stilted and jerky as if some very inept puppet master is pulling his strings. "Yeah," he mutters, sounding just on the verge of bitterness, and twists to face the back seat. "It's… wonderful.  _Christo_."

"Gesundheit." Sam leans back into his seat and stares out the windshield, entwining his hands behind his head, enjoying the moment. This is probably the cleanest place he'd been in since, well, ever. Scowly runs a tight ship.

Speaking of which, Sam thinks he should probably find out what the guy's name actually is. It could get a little awkward calling him Scowly to his face.

He turns his head, says, "So hey, I just realized," and promptly receives water to the face.

Sam blinks, recovers enough to send a glare at his supposed brother. "What - what the everloving crap, man," he sputters, sitting up and wiping his cheeks with a dirty sleeve, "What the heck was that for?"

For a moment, Scowly looks at a loss, silver bottle almost engulfed in his paw of a hand as he mostly just gapes at Sam, but soon enough he recovers and shrugs pseudo-innocently. "You're pretty filthy."

It's really tempting to get mad, say 'screw you' to Scowly and get out to go his merry wandering way, but those sad, too-earnest eyes must be working a spell on him or something because he can't seem to rally up anything greater than mild annoyance.

And it's only water, anyway.

"Yeah, and that helped how?" Sam grumbles. He pauses to think, then comments, "Not to mention, dude, you might want to watch out for your car. It'd be a real shame to ruin this leather interior."

It only lasts a second, but strangely enough, that's the first smile he gets out of the guy.

…It looks pretty good.

 

* * *

 

"So," he says a little while later, once he gets bored counting streetlights. Scowly's not a chatterbox, that's for sure. "You and me. Brothers, huh?"

The guy's humongous hands (because they are, okay, they're freaking fucking  _huge_ ) tighten on the steering wheel, but his reply is calm and level. "If you're who you say you are."

"Yeah, about that. A name would be nice."

Scowly glances at him briefly.

Sam waits a moment. When nothing comes, he rolls his eyes in exasperation. "Well?"

There's a long pause.

And then, finally, quietly: "Dean."

Sam repeats it in his head, but nothing clicks, there's no mental cry of bingo or eureka or even  _yahtzee_.

"Ah," he says, feeling stupid. "Is that, uh, yours or mine?"

The large knuckles whiten again, but Scowly's uptight face doesn't betray a thing. "Yours. I'm…" his throat works, "I'm Sam."

Sam -  _Dean_  winces inwardly. Talk about awkward, no wonder the guy'd looked so stunned when he'd found out the name Sam chose (that _Dean_ chose, God this is gonna be confusing for a while). Add to that the shock of seeing his dead brother walking around – and, yeah, can't blame the guy for being seriously messed up.

At the same time, he can't really bring himself to feel all that much sympathy because, who cares? He _knows his name._  His actual  _real_ name _._ It even sounds real and everything.

And damn, it feels  _good_.

"So,"  _Dean_  says cheerfully, "we got any family? I mean, I get the feeling we're not exactly the Brady Bunch, here, but is there anyone else? Do I have a family holed up somewhere? Where're our parents at?"

"Everyone's dead," Sam – the real Sam, that is – replies.

And that pretty much kills  _that_  conversation.

 

* * *

 

He falls asleep.

Not polite road-trip etiquette, maybe, but it shouldn't surprise anyone – Dean's kind of had a big day, what with rising from the dead and walking a bajillion miles and all. It's nice and black and quiet wherever he is, and there aren't any dreams; at least, none that he can remember when he wakes up.

...But maybe that's because he's got other things on his mind.

" _Ow_!"

His companion shoots him a fleeting glance before turning back apathetically to the road. "You okay?"

Dean stares at his wrist, where a long scratch is already starting to scab over. "Think I hit my hand on something," he answers, weirded out. First the grave thing, then the screeching noise thing, and now mysterious injuries out of nowhere?

What the hell is going on?

"You should be more careful."

Real helpful, Sam. He gives his best glare, but Sam doesn't seem to notice or care. He settles for a mumbled  _fuck you_ , thinks for a bit and then adds a _Sammy_  just for kicks _._

"It's Sam," his maybe-brother says flatly, sounding dangerous and distinctly un-brotherly.

"Whatever," he says back, too annoyed to be intimidated.

Still, he makes a mental note.  _Sam, not Sammy_.

 

* * *

 

Barely ten minutes pass then before Dean gets seriously thirsty. And not as in hmm-I-could-go-for-a-soda thirsty, but the full out my-tongue-is-sandpaper-and-I-need-water-to-live sensation of dehydration, which in hindsight, might have been prevented by ordering more water instead of various desserts.

He debates for a few more minutes whether or not to chance it, but finally decides that being sca- _wary_  of Sam's seven feet of muscle is not really a good reason to suffer, especially considering that killing Dean would involve taking his hands off the wheel and Sam's been a pretty law-abiding driver so far, aside from the speeding. "Hey," he says, trying for casual, "where'd you put that water bottle?"

Sam shoots him an unreadable look. "There's one behind your seat," he answers, somewhat curt, but that's pretty much been Sam's modus operandi when it comes to Dean or anyone breathing.

He crinkles his forehead. "What happened to that other one you had? You know, the one you watered me with?"

Sam opens his mouth as if to answer, but then closes it just as quickly. His shoulders lift in a shrug.

Muttering under his breath, Dean snaps open his seatbelt and dives his upper body between the seats trying to find the goddamn thing. When his hands finally wrap around round plastic he straightens, twists off the cap and takes a pull, gulping down what must be half of its contents in a single swallow, not bothering to be delicate or quiet about it because seriously, the guy's pissy act is starting to get on his nerves. He gets that seeing a dead brother can come as a surprise, he really does, but would it actually  _kill_  the giant ass to be friendly?

He's not sure what he'd been aiming for, but as they stop for a red light Sam proves that he can, in fact, acknowledge Dean's existence - by staring his eyes out.

Which, okay. Creepy.

_Whatever._  Deciding to give His Royal Bitchiness a taste of his own medicine, Dean pointedly ignores the intense sorta-green glower and continues to drink obnoxiously loud. When he finishes, he wipes his mouth with a sleeve, and only then does he return Sam's scrutiny.

"You mind?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Your hands," the other man says haltingly, and it's only when Dean follows his gaze that he realizes that Sam had been looking at them all along.

He glances at the hand holding the bottle and frowns, not understanding where Sam's coming from. He's pretty sure he has all five digits, but he wiggles them all to make sure. "What about them?"

"They're…" Mister can't-give-a-straight-answer falters uncertainly, almost sounding amazed.

Dean follows his gaze again and suddenly realizes what's going on. His fingernails have collected dirt and blood, his knuckles are torn to the bone, and his hands still look more brown than not.

He blinks incredulously. This has to be a joke.

...The OCD asshole is actually mad at him for getting his precious car  _dirty_.

"Sorry if I didn't have time for a manicure, princess," he bites out angrily, because he's had a long day and he's  _had_ it with Sam. "Digging through six feet of dirt ain't exactly easy, all right?"

"I…" Sam seems to be finding it hard to speak. "I guess so," he says quietly, and when he looks back to the road, there's a wrinkle between his eyebrows that hadn't been there before.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, Sam still doesn't seem to be planning on stopping for anything but a gas station anytime soon. Dean shifts in his seat for a while before finally abandoning his sorry attempt at giving Sam the silent treatment. "Dude, the guy live in Canada or something? Where the heck are you driving us?"

"South Dakota."

He whistles as his mind somehow informs him just how long it takes to get there from Indiana. He has no idea if any of that's true, but he figures it can't be too off. "Must be a pretty good friend you got there, if you're gonna drive us all that way."

"Yeah," Sam answers tightly, not elaborating.

"Think he can…" he trails off, unsure how to finish – what, help Dean with his not-dead problem? Jeeze, he doesn't even have a clue what they're aiming for, here.

Sam pulls a shoulder in another wordless shrug.

…Dean's really starting to get tired of those.

 

* * *

 

Another hour passes.

It might be just Dean, but the silence in the car feels kind of awkward. Awkward in ways even Radiohead can't cover for. Ways especially Radiohead can't cover for.

He fidgets in his seat as Sam glowers ahead at the road, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

In the end, he decides to just come out with it. Clear the air and all.

"By the way. Sam." The name glides off his tongue like he's already said it a million times, and for the first time it crosses his mind that maybe he has. "I just… I want to say thanks."

Dean can practically feel the puzzlement radiate from the other man.

"What for?" Sam asks, for once not sounding cold or surly or murderous.

"Well, uh." Why does his face feels like it's burning? He clears his throat. "You didn't have to do this. Putting up with me and crap. I mean, you don't even know if I'm really your brother, and even if I was, I'm guessing I wasn't exactly one of your top five people to be stuck in a car with, so uh… yeah. Thanks. I appreciate it."

He steals a glance at Sam – his brother,  _damn_  – but if anything, the guy looks upset.

Oh, what  _now?_

"Why –" Sam swallows, stares ahead. "What makes you think we didn't get along?"

Dean shrugs ( _ha, see, I can do that too_ ). "Well for one," he starts, counting off on his fingers, "you didn't look too happy to see me alive and kicking. Still don't, actually. Then there's me being buried in the middle of nowhere, not exactly wearing my Sunday best, in what must be – no offense dude – what is probably the shittiest grave in the history of graves. I mean come on, man, I didn't even get a headstone with my name on it – which would have been really helpful, by the way – let alone some corny lines about how I was an awesome brother and all. So yeah, doesn't exactly take a genius to connect the dots."

"It wasn't… it wasn't like that," the other man whispers after a moment, with obvious effort. "It wasn't supposed to be permanent. Just… just for a while, until…"

He can't help but feel bad – like, he isn't about to lie (his grave  _was_ crappy), but it hadn't been his intention to make Sam feel guilty. Not to mention that it probably isn't very polite or tactful to come back from the dead and complain about his funeral arrangements. That's more vengeful ghost territory, and his butt's way too uncomfortably numb to be anything like incorporeal.

"Look, don't worry about it. So we weren't the Brady Bunch, big fucking deal. I'm sure you had more important things to take care of, plus it's not like there's any point wasting money on dead people anyway." He lets out a breath, lounges back on his seat in an attempt to get comfortable. "All I'm saying is that I appreciate what you're doing here, that's all. Most people would probably freak out or pick up a gun if they saw a zombie ordering apple pie, not take it out for a drive."

"Dean –" Sam says thickly, but that's it, that's all he says. All of a sudden, Dean's grouchy companion is staring at the road as if trying to set it on fire, and somehow at the same time also manages to look all of eight years old. There's barely a foot between them, but for all intents and purposes, Sam might as well be a million miles away.

Dean doesn't really get what's happening, if the guy just can't take a thank you or if there's some other issue at work here, but he decides to see it as a good thing that Sam's so focused on the road, seeing as how Sam's also the one driving. Dean doesn't really care to have his life end in a car accident less than twenty-four hours after it's begun - but then again, that'd be ironic, and his life so far has all the makings of a big cosmic joke.

Still, it would kind of suck to have Sam dragged down with him. When he's not being a giant huffy ass, Dean thinks he might even like the guy.

 

* * *

 

The world's pretty.

They pass by cows and pastures and various clear lakes, and Dean just eats it all up, watching with wide eyes as the blue sky turns bluer and the sun dives across to the horizon as if racing with the clouds. Again he muses on what a decidedly odd circumstance this non-memory deal is, because while he knows what night is and can, in theory anyway, tell stalks of corn and wheat apart, it feels as if he's never seen  _anything_  before, as if each experience is the very first. It's kind of a cool feeling, in a way, to appreciate the world the way a kid probably does, to know what things are supposed to be like, but then again, not really.

…It's also a little lonely.

"You're not a zombie, you know," Sam says abruptly, gaze still fixed on the road.

It takes a second to process that Sam is talking to him.

"Oh, I know," he replies airily. "This face is way too pretty to be undead."

Sam doesn't answer, but there's a little curve to his lips that could almost be considered a smile, and his green - hazel? - eyes crinkle with real amusement. Dean would have said something about it, but for some reason he doesn't and instead just grins out the window.

The silence between them is suddenly much more comfortable, after that.


	3. Deep in the stillness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys meet Bobby. It doesn't go too well.

 

In his one day or so of living, Dean hasn't seen very many houses. Still, he thinks he has a pretty good idea of what one should look like.

…This isn't it.

"Your friend lives in a _junkyard_?"

Sam rolls his eyes as he pulls them up front. "He fixes cars."

 _Dunno about that_ , he thinks, looking at the heaps of cars and things that might have at one point been cars surrounding the property like a moat around a castle, except instead of sharks or piranhas there's just this one Rottweiller on a leash he could swear is giving him the old stinkeye.

"Looks like he brings his work home with him," he says, trying to be gracious about the fact that apparently Sam's friend has decided to take a page from the Unabomber's book and live in the middle of fucking nowhere. And seriously, just what is it with Sam and dumping Dean in the most backwater, isolated shitholes in the continental US?

If not for the fact that the guy is his brother, he might be a little creeped out.

"It's beyond me where he gets it from though," he adds after a moment, because Sam's being quiet and introspective and looking out the window again, and if there's anything he'd learned over the past nine-plus hours, it's that there's nothing that perks Sam up - okay, irritates Sam like hell - as much as mindless chatter. "This place ain't exactly the hottest thing in town. Actually, I'm not even sure there is a town."

The other man just gives him this dry, squinty look that seems almost too at home on his long face, as if Sam's had to deal with people like Dean for far longer than any sane person would willingly handle. Dean looks away uneasily, reminds himself that no one can read minds, and if Sam could he would have definitely said something about a few of Dean's less than charitable thoughts about him.

"Bobby likes his privacy," Sam replies, finally giving the key a twist. The engine shuts down with a last protesting growl, the lights turn off, and suddenly they're enveloped in comfortable darkness and everything's just nice and quiet with the only sound being Sam's breathing and his own.

The slam of the door jolts Dean awake before he can even dare fantasize about nodding off, and he grumblingly follows Sam out of the car. Once outside, he stretches and groans – half a day of driving is a lot harder than it sounds, and he's aching in places that he hadn't even known existed. He bends backwards, wincing at the cracks issuing from his spine, and takes the chance to take in the gloomy house as he does so.

"I would too, if I was an antisocial psychopath," he mutters under his breath, because if Theodore Kaczynski ran a car business, this'd be it.

As if it had somehow heard the slight to its owner, the dog growls at Dean, teeth slightly bared, and even as he jumps and shoots it a dirty look Dean quickens his strides to catch up to the taller man.

…He figures that at least with Sam there's a somewhat better chance of not getting bitten.

As he reaches the final stair Sam comes to a standstill in front of the door, hands limp and useless at his sides, fingers curling. He shoots Dean this almost nervous wide-eyed look, like he isn't at all sure what he's doing here and Dean's somehow got all the answers.

Except Dean doesn't have any, and for the first time, he's actually starting to feel a little resentful about it.

Even while he watches, though, Sam straightens his shoulders and raises his chin determinedly, as if he's getting ready for a fight rather than just visiting an old friend. Dean tries to figure out what he's thinking, but he gives up quickly when it proves to be, yet again, a somewhat futile effort.

"Better stand back," the man who calls himself his brother says at last, giving Dean a little push with his arm. "Bobby's gonna be a little surprised to see you."

 

* * *

 

'A little surprised' doesn't quite cover it, Dean thinks at first as he watches the sharp beady eyes study them both, flashes of anger and horror and all that other good stuff zipping through them like there's a fire sale and everything must go, go, go.

But still, other than that Sam's friend is actually very stoic, he observes (a little disappointedly – he'd been hoping for a much more interesting reaction). Sure, the guy's been staring at him for a couple of awkward seconds now, but that seems to be the usual drill for the people Dean meets, and aside from the eyes there's really nothing on the fuzzy pink face that says that Bobby is seeing a dead man.

Which either means that Bobby is a real cool customer, or…or that maybe, he just doesn't know Dean died.

It makes sense – for all he knows Sam had never updated the guy on the haps, and after all, Sam hasn't mentioned anything about Bobby being Dean's friend. Or maybe Bobby's just never met the before-death version of Dean to begin with, and he's actually just glaring because he's wondering what the hell a stranger is doing in his doozy of a junkyard.

The old man steps out of his house, fist still tight on the doorknob as if even now contemplating the merits of slamming the door in their faces. "Dean?"

…Or maybe not.

"Yo," he says and gives little wave, trying to appear friendly and charming because he's just spent more than ten hours sitting on his butt trying to reach this guy and it would really suck to be turned away now.

Bobby stares at him for another second or two. Then, before Dean can even blink, the shorter man darts between him and Sam and shoves Sam against the wall.

Like, _hard_.

"You fucking dumbass _Winchester_ ," the man spits, hands on Gigantor's collar. The way the name shoots out from his mouth, you might think that there's no greater insult in the world. "What did you do?" Another shove. "Sam, what the hell did you _do_?"

If Dean had expected them to come into blows – and yeah, he did – he's disappointed though, because all Sam does is make this choked noise and look all doe-eyed and gaspy. And it might just be Dean's imagination, but for a moment there, his gigantic tree of a companion almost looks _small_.

"Nothing, Bobby," Sam says distraughtly. He doesn't do a thing about Bobby's hands. "I didn't do anything, I swear. It wasn't me!"

Piercing eyes assess and judge, but finally Bobby loosens his grip and Dean lets out the breath he's been holding – it's not like he was worried for Sam or anything, but refereeing a fight isn't on his list of qualifications as far as he knows.

One hairy hand runs down the man's scraggly face while the other one reaches to the wall for support. "Damn it, Sam," he mutters roughly, scrubbing his chin, sounding tired and old. "Damn it."

Dean's starting to get this vague feeling like he's missing something. And call him paranoid, but he can't help but notice that the older man is steadfastly keeping his distance from him, avoiding Dean as if he's some rabid dog who might lash out at any time. Which is pretty ridiculous and also offensive, seeing as how Bobby's the one who has a pistol tucked in a holster.

"I don't know," Sam answers some unspoken question, not backing away like a sensible person but actually moving closer, almost entreatingly. "Whatever it was, it happened today. Bobby, he says he… he says he woke up in Dean's grave."

"In his…?"

Sam nods.

Bobby turns back to them, that tired expression still on his face, but he looks more regretful now, full of sympathy, and for some reason Dean feels a chill run down his spine.

"That doesn't make sense, Sam. Pulling off that kind of stunt takes a lotta mojo, and I didn't hear a thing – everything's been quiet." He frowns in thought, a deep furrow settling between his eyebrows. "…Maybe too quiet," he says slowly. His eyes dart up to Sam's. "How'd you find him?"

"I was…" Sam clears his throat. "I was on a case, followed a bunch of… followed it from Missouri to Pontiac. I'd just gone to get some breakfast before hitting the road, and – and he was just... there." For the first time since Dean's met him, the human iceberg actually looks like he might be emoting. "God, Bobby, it was him, and I almost left without even knowing, he was just there -"

Dean catches Bobby shooting him a suspicious glance, and he sends back a glower of his own. He has no idea what's going on here, but as far as he can tell he's missing some major backstory. It's like starting to watch a Mexican soap opera after the commercial break, with all the emotions and enthusiastic hand gestures and none of the handy subtitles.

"Sam," Bobby starts cautiously, "it's been four months. Didn't it cross your mind that-"

The younger man interrupts impatiently, "Of course it did, of course it crossed my mind! But…" he looks down for an instant, face crumpling. "It.. it was him, Bobby, right in front of me. I couldn't take the chance, in case, if -" he takes a steadying breath. "So I thought I thought I'd bring him over. See what you make of it."

Bobby frowns, opens his mouth –

"And before you say anything," Sam hurries, "I checked, okay? He didn't even flinch when I said christo, holy water didn't do a thing, I nicked him with silver and he was completely fine, and look, I've driven with him all the way from Indiana but he hasn't pulled anything. And it… it feels like him, Bobby. Maybe – you don't think maybe -"

"Waitwaitwait, hold on a sec." The two men twist to face him in surprise, clearly having forgotten that the person they've been blabbing about was actually there. "Did I hear right? You _nicked_ me?" he repeats incredulously, voice rising, ignoring Bobby's lifted eyebrow as his eyes latch onto Sam's. "As in, with a _knife_?"

The barely-there twinge of discomfort on Sam's face is answer enough.

"Oh, shit," he says slowly, blankly, and he obviously can't see himself, but he's pretty sure betrayal is making one hell of a mess with his face. There are other emotions roiling under the surface too, fighting to come up for air, but that's really about the only one he can focus on at the moment.

Bobby tosses him a look which seems to suggest that Dean is a complete moron. "What did you expect, boy? You pop out of the Pit and think no one will take precautions?"

"Wait, Bobby," Sam interjects hurriedly, "he doesn't remember -"

"I knew it, I fucking knew it." His eyes sting, and he angrily swipes at them with a sleeve, stumbling as he backs away. Suddenly, he just wants out of here. "If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is, right? Fuck. I'm a fucking idiot."

Sam and Bobby look confused for a moment, but then realization makes its way to Sam's face. "Dean," he says gently – but in a sinister kind of way, okay? – stepping closer and holding out his hands as if threatening to cage the other man inside them.

He flinches, puts his own hand up as a barrier between him and Sam. "Oh no, you stay right there, you sick freak," he warns shakily, wishing he had a gun or something remotely threatening in his hands. "I trusted you. God help me, I thought you were for real." He takes another step back. "I mean yeah, I thought you were a scary fucker, but I thought you were, I didn't actually think you'd – and shit, 'holy water'? What the _fuck_?"

"It's not how it sounds," Sam tries to explain, but he interrupts before Sam can get any further.

"Oh really?" he cries angrily, opening his arms wide as if to tell Sam to take a shot – or maybe another _stab with a fricking knife_. "So you mean this _isn't_ like a sick take on the Exorcist? You're _not_ actually some kind of psycho killer?"

"Dean-"

"Is this your M.O.? You find some gullible nutcase in Nowhere, Nowheresville and lug him to your buddy here so you guys can, what, _eat_ him or something?"

"No-"

"-Because good job, you actually had me going there with the sad puppy eyes and the whole 'I'm not sure if I can trust you' thing. But it was really the other way around, wasn't it? Of course you were never gonna trust me, you were just trying to get me to trust you." He laughs suddenly, and even he thinks he sounds unhinged. "You, my brother? Right. What a joke."

Sam swallows, eyes glittering under the blend of warm yellow light from the inside of the house and the cool glow of the rising moon. "No, you – you _are_ , Dean, you're my brother-"

"Don't call me that," he shouts, feeling disgusted and scared and just - _violated_. "Don't you even fucking _look_ at me like that! I might not know who the fuck I am, _Sammy_ , but I sure as hell can tell when I'm being played!"

"Oh yeah?" Bobby puts in, and for the first time the man actually looks Dean directly in the eye. He walks until he's right in front of Dean, face as hard and unyielding as a frickin' rock, looking a hell of a lot like his Godzilla of a puppy. "I'd say you're making it pretty obvious here you don't know a goddamn thing."

"Don't you start, old man," he snarls, even as he backs away warily. There's no way he can take on both men at once – he isn't even sure he can take one – but Bobby definitely doesn't look like a marathon runner, and maybe he can outrun Sam's long legs with a head start. Maybe. "I'll fight if I have to."

"Boy," the shorter man says cautiously, keeping his moves slow, making a weird juxtaposition with the frozen Sam he's standing next to. "You need to cool it. You're not thinking clearly."

"No? _I_ think I am," he shoots back fiercely. " _I_ think I wasn't thinking clearly when I hitched a ride with fucking _Sasquatch_ over there!" he points at Sam, who only looks even more crushed. Somehow, though, he really can't find it in himself to care. He's been such an idiot.

All of a sudden, he has to squash a laugh.

Because this? This is hilarious. This? This is comedy _gold_. He had one day, just one day to not mess up, and now he's going to die and it's not even midnight. He's the saddest Cinderella ever, and son of a bitch, but it takes some fucking talent to not even make it one day in the world.

Other people can fuck up – do it all the time, in fact – but this is the only day he has, and apparently the only day he's ever gonna get, so it means that he fucked up on such a bigger scale than everyone else in the world that it's not even funny.

...Except it really is. Fuck. He should have had a fucking _steak_ for breakfast.

The urge to laugh comes back up his throat, but he muffles it and instead just lets out a sarcastic snort that he hopes sounds sane. "I gotta hand it to you, Sam, I had it coming. I mean, what kind of whackjob believes everything a complete stranger tells them? Let alone get in their car?"

"The better question is," Bobby replies right back, "what kind of whackjob wakes up in a grave and then thinks holy water and demons is crazy talk?"

Blink.

"…What?"

"You were raised from the dead, boy," the guy says, sounding exasperated. "You think that's normal?"

"Well…" he flounders, then remembers the reason for all this and emphatically points at Sam again. "He stabbed me!"

"Did he now?" Bobby remarks, raising an eyebrow and making a show of looking him over. "I don't exactly see you bleeding to death."

The scratch on his hand suddenly makes itself known, and he glowers at the man, not enjoying being ridiculed by someone who's in all likelihood a psychopath. "It's not – he _stabbed_ me!" he stresses insistently, doesn't understand what's so difficult to understand. Is he not speaking English or something? "With a knife! In what world is that okay?"

"Silver knife," Bobby points out, as if that's supposed to mean something, or somehow make it all dandy.

It definitely doesn't do either.

"Wow. Snazzy," he remarks brightly, backing away just a little more, and he likes to think that the sarcasm dripping from his lips isn't as high and frightened as it sounds, but who the hell knows. "Try to get me with a gold one next time. I think it goes better with my skin tone."

The man sighs, gives him another you're-an-idiot look. "It repels shapeshifters, smartass. Sam was making sure you were human."

He nods solemnly. "Right, I see. Now me, I thought for sure I was a rabbit, but now that I'm stabbed everything's so _clear_ – "

" _For fuck's sake, Dean_!" Bobby barks, effectively shutting him up. "For once in your life, think with your goddamn head! People don't just rise from the dead easy as you please! You're an abomination of nature, boy, and you're damn lucky Sam didn't shoot you on the spot, because anyone else with a lick of sense would have!"

And oh yeah, that just makes him feel so much better. Someone give this asshole a prize, because this is definitely the way to get a guy's trust. "Is this you volunteering for the job?" he snaps back bravely. "Is that why I'm here, how you're gonna solve my undead problem? You gonna shoot me?"

The older man stares at him, then shakes his head, and if he didn't know any better he'd swear that the old guy is actually containing a laugh. "Only a Winchester would be this much trouble," he thinks he hears the guy half-grunt, half-mutter.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Sam quickly turn his head to stare at Bobby.

"No," Bobby finally answers clearly, simply, and for some reason the man sounds both relieved and resigned and… even sad, maybe. "That ain't it."

He stares. Scrunches up his face a little.

For a long moment he just breathes, heartbeat slowly returning to normal. Taking their cues from him, the two other man stay where they are, watch him think.

This guy's crazy, he understands suddenly. This guy, and Sam, they're both totally nuts.

…Then again, this is a pretty nutty world he woke up in.

"So," he ventures at last, carefully fixing his stare on the floor. "I don't think I'm a zombie."

"Haven't ruled it out," the older man says, but there's a twist to his lips that says he might be joking.

Dean nods. "Okay," he says, and clears his throat. "…Demons, huh?"

Bobby's boots shift as he relaxes his stance a little. He adjusts his baseball cap and heaves a sigh, scratching the back of his neck. "I'm not having this conversation outside," he finally declares flatly, walking over to the door and opening it invitingly.

Dean eyes him warily, but doesn't move.

The old man rolls his eyes. "Oh, for God's sake," he grumbles under his breath, then raises his voice. "What are you gonna do, you idjit? It's the middle of the night,  town's miles away from here. You've got nowhere to run. Besides, you're gonna want to sit down for this." He massages his forehead and mutters to himself, "Hell knows I do," before he turns on his heels and walks inside, leaving the door ajar and Sam and Dean standing on his porch.

Dean watches the man disappear between bookshelves, and wavers.

"I don't know," he says hesitantly, addressing no one in particular now that Bobby's gone. For some reason, despite everything, he can't help but look at Sam.

The person who, he's starting to realize, maybe actually is his brother.

Sam looks… well, he kind of looks like hell. Not really in a physical way, so much, although ten hours of speeding through state lines definitely looks like it wears out a guy, the way there are bags under the green eyes and the floppy hair looks even greasier than Dean's. His shoulders are hunched over like a shield against the world, and the huge ape-like hands just hang there uselessly.

It's hard to reconcile the threatening, silent badass with this blank, broken man.

But it's his face that gets Dean in the gut. Over the drive Sam had loosened up a little, even turned up the iPod at one point, but the rough and driven guy Dean's been getting to know – getting to like, even – is nowhere to be found anywhere on these features. Hurt and vulnerability have softened the lines and contours of Sam, and instead of the stolid mask all kinds of pain and grief and hope flicker on Sam's face like some kind of old-time movie projector. It actually hurts Dean to watch, but at the same time it comes almost as a kind of a relief, sort of like when puzzle pieces are finally put into place.

And that's when it finally dawns on him that he's sold on this guy. No matter what anyone tells him now, no matter what Sam does, he'll never believe otherwise.

This – _this_ is his brother.

Sam meets his eyes hollowly, but at the same time there's a fierceness to it, a joy, almost, that nearly knocks Dean clean off his feet.

He shuffles in place, doesn't have a clue where to start. He runs a hand through his hair, contemplating strategies and discarding them one by one, then gives up and decides to just improvise, screw it. "Listen, I -"

"He's a good guy," Sam says quietly, voice gentle and reassuring, and Dean thinks _wow, I must have really freaked out on him_. "You can trust him."

…Dean notices he doesn't say _us_.

He tries again. "Sam - " and again he's interrupted.

"You can call me Sammy."

Dean gapes. _Huh?_ "What?"

"You. Just you." The green eyes pierce his determinedly. "And just sometimes."

For a moment Dean simply stands there, knowing that he's been offered a gift and not really sure what to do with it. Then he catches the fondness in his brother's eyes, the _understanding_ , and Dean finally gets what Sam's trying to say.

He grins.

"All right, Sammy," he says. "Let's go talk about zombies."

And Sam smiles, brilliant as the sun.

 

* * *

 

"...For the last time, Dean, you're not a zombie."

"Yeah, whatever."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beer, explanations, and realizations, in that order.

 

 "…Well?"

Dean blinks.

"Oh, sorry," he replies blankly, and takes the first gulp out of his now-warm beer. "Say, guys," he says, "this is kinda watery for a dark lager, isn't it? You sure it's a Guinness?" he peers at the label suspiciously. "Tastes more like a Bud Light to me."

Sam looks over at Bobby, raises an eyebrow, rolls his eyes.

Bobby nods in reply, makes a face, shrugs his shoulders.

And Dean, meanwhile, thinks to himself  _holy hell, people, it's just beer._

It's been getting on his nerves; the two hunters have been sending secret silent messages to each other ever since they'd all sat down in Bobby's living room so he could get the  _it's really, really out there_ speech, and it's remarkable, really, how a conversation that should have theoretically been so informative and enlightening is giving him the distinct sense that he's not receiving the entire picture.

"And how would you know what a Bud Light tastes like, if you don't mind me askin'?" Bobby says, finally looking back at Dean. "Thought you didn't remember anything."

He shrugs his shoulders. "Beats me," he answers truthfully, and takes another pull from the bottle because hey, beer is beer. "I just do." It's as instinctual as sitting or scratching his head or knowing he needs water when he's thirsty. The knowledge is just there – not exactly jumping to get his attention, but slithering its way into his thoughts without him even realizing it.

Which is kind of creepy, when he thinks about it.

The older man frowns at him – Dean can practically see the sharp, steely cogs turning – but for some reason or other he lets it go and instead returns to their original subject... the one that Dean's been trying to avoid. "So, how're you handling all this?" he asks.

It's a fair question.

"All what?"

Bobby gives him a  _look_.

Geeze. "Well," he says, scratching the back of his neck and muffling a yawn, "let's just say when I was thinking about possible career paths, going after Casper with a gun wasn't exactly what came to mind."

Bobby snorts, but something crosses Sam's face and he bends his torso forward a bit, elbows resting on his knees. "What did you think you were?" he asks, sounding nothing more than politely interested, but somehow Dean gets the feeling that's not quite the case.

He takes a second or two to think, although it's not like the question is anything new. When you have no idea who you are and spend close to twelve freaking hours cooped up inside a car, you tend to think about these kinds of things. "I dunno, some kind of banker or lawyer," he hazards, waving his beer in the air about him vaguely. "Ooh, maybe a fireman. That'd be pretty cool, right?"

Sam stares for a second, then gives a little breathy, unamused laugh. He takes a sip of his beer and replies, "Yeah. Pretty cool."

"But what kind of courses do you have to take to be a ghostbuster?" Dean wonders aloud. "Is there a demonology major or something?"

Another Bobby-Sam glance exchange. "…I think you're missing the point a little, Dean," Sam says tactfully, with a face that says 'look at me, I'm being  _sensitive_ ' and also 'I am mildly concerned for your mental health'. "Hunting's not really the kind of thing you want people to know about. The idea of the supernatural being real isn't exactly, um, widely accepted."

"I know that," he scowls. "Give me a break, I'm not retarded. I just... Like, is there some kind of track to being a hunter? Like taking classical studies or -" he cuts himself off, flushes. "Forget it, it's dumb," he mutters.

"Well, uh," Bobby looks at a loss. "That kinda thing would be handy, sure," he says at last, nods. "Most folks don't have that sort of background though. Hunters…" the man pauses, then continues delicately, "…well, the huntin' lifestyle's not usually one that's so much chosen as, say, tripped on."

Dean grimaces. "Somehow I get the feeling that it's not a happy kind of trip."

"Not usually," Bobby replies dryly.

"So how'd you and I get roped into it?" he asks Sam. "What did we do before," he makes another vague gesture, "all this?"

Sam has a stricken look on his face, but he schools it down before Dean has time to do anything more than wonder. "Ah…" he looks away, hands absently fiddling with the label on his beer. "We're… kind of the exception."

Dean nods soberly, finishes his beer, stares off into the distance for a while.

And gives up. "Okay, what the hell does that mean?"

"I mean…" Sam glances at the ceiling and squints as if the words he wants to say are written there in Aramaic or something. "We've always been hunters. It's kind of a… a family business."

"Gotcha." He hesitates, then throws out offhandedly, "Guessing that's where the 'everyone's dead' thing comes in, right?"

His brother winces visibly, clearly remembering the moment Dean's referring to, and his mouth hangs open like a fish for a while, as if to protest or apologize or something of the sort, except nothing like that comes out. "…Yeah."

"So you and me," Dean clarifies, making sure, "we're all that's left."

Sam nods tightly, knuckles white in his lap.

_That really, really sucks_ , Dean thinks, but what he says is "Wow, we must be good, huh?"

Sam smiles a little, but somehow it's almost like he's not smiling at all.

 

* * *

 

They talk for a while longer, though really it's Bobby who does most of the talking. Dean learns a lot of disturbing things, like that he's never been to college, that his mother died burning on the ceiling ( _but the demon's dead now, we killed it_ ), that salt is apparently more than just a condiment, that he's legally dead (and a criminal, let's not forget that), and that he supposedly has an unnatural love affair with Sam's car and 80's cassette tapes. Sam speaks up a little sometimes, correcting here and there or adding a small mundane detail, but despite that nothing strikes Dean as familiar or even gives him a creepy deja vu, and memories from the twenty-nine odd years of his life don't even show their butts, let alone faces.

…He's not sure who's more disappointed by that, him or Sam.

 

* * *

 

When Bobby tells him that he sold his soul in exchange for Sam's life, he can't help but gape.

"Hold - hold on," he fumbles, off-balance, not paying attention to the glare Sam's directing at the older man. He stands up and starts pacing around the room, absently peering at books with weird titles like  _Charms of Absalom_ and  _Olde Myths of the New World_. For some reason, this pill is harder to swallow than the concepts of ghosts and bullets made of rock salt. "You were dead, and I… resurrected you?"

Sam keeps quiet, but Bobby makes a face. "Technically the crossroads demon did, but yeah. Your dumb ass made the deal."

"And I went to hell for it? Like,  _hell_ hell?"

"A year later," Bobby confirms, sneaking a look at Sam, who's pretty much not glaring at anyone except maybe the floor right now. "…Four months ago."

Dean stops pacing and turns. He can't make out Sam's eyes under the bangs, but he stares anyway, not particularly caring if he's rude.

It sounds surreal to him, a story about another guy. He can't picture throwing his life away for someone else, let alone for someone who's already kicked the bucket. Family or not, dead is dead, right?

Besides, that kind of thing, that kind of sacrifice… it's the act of someone desperate, and Dean just can't understand how anyone can be reduced to that just from losing one person, however loved. He can't even imagine feeling such a huge responsibility for another human being, can't imagine what it's like having anyone matter so much that he'd feel like whatever happens to him doesn't matter, so long as they're okay.

He just doesn't get it.

Like, at all. So yeah, life's not going all that great for him right now, maybe, he hasn't exactly found out he's the lost heir to a billion dollar company with a hot girlfriend and a Ferrari, but whatever. Still pretty sure he  _likes_ being alive.

...Sure beats being in hell, anyway.

Dean's head tilts a little to the side, trying to figure out why Sam might be so important, why before-Dean would give up his own soul just so Sam can walk around being his little ray of sunshine self.

Because the guy doesn't look like much, frankly. The face is fine, sure, not exactly ugly, but Sam's hair is way too long for Dean's liking, and not exactly a unique or spectacular shade of brown. His eyes are hollow and underlined with rings – and they're dark, unreadable except for those times he looks like he might break and Bobby clenches his hands and Dean has no idea what's going on.

Which is too damn often for Dean's comfort.

And God, is Sam grumpy... and quiet, and kind of menacing - or, well, he  _was,_ back when he thought Dean was a revolver or whatever. There's still this intense, desperate air around Sam even now though, just...  _weight_ , and Dean wonders whether it's because he's alive or because he used to be dead, or if Sam's just always been like that, like he's only a second away from having a bomb explode in his face. He even makes sitting look like hard work, the way he folds his huge frame up in Bobby's chair like he can barely fit, muscles coiling and rippling under the long-sleeved shirt like he's ready to burst into a run or a fight or a really hard tap dance.

To be completely honest here, Sam doesn't look like he needs anyone to take care of him. He doesn't look like someone anyone would want to mess with - much less feel the need to protect.

And he doesn't look like the type to let himself die.

Except...

_"You can call me Sammy."_

...Except.

Dean blinks. His forehead wrinkles.

"You're my  _little_  brother," he says slowly, incredulity leaking into his voice. It seems kind of obvious now, although at the same time he can't help but think it's all a bit ludicrous. The guy's taller than him, for heaven's sake, and built like a fricking house, and while Dean might not remember much about having siblings he's pretty sure big brothers should always be able to kick their little brothers' ass.

Dean decides then and there to start working on that, start getting in shape. No way is he going to mess with the natural order of the universe. It's, like, bad karma.

Sam gives a start, as if it hadn't even crossed his mind that there be any doubt as to who's older. He glances at Dean as if to say something, but he doesn't, just swallows and nods.

Dean frowns, looks harder.

And just like that, it's like something shifts, reality or whatever, because all of a sudden, Sam really does look like just a kid – a really tall kid, granted, but his face is suddenly vulnerable and open and Dean can read every single line in it, every wrinkle, and for the first time he doesn't see someone who can break him in half with one hand, but just a boy, missing his big brother.

He thinks back to the diner, Sam's enraged face. Thinks back to the car, and Sam's white-knuckled fists, and  _what makes you think we didn't get along?_

…Make that  _really_ missing his big brother.

He wants to say something like  _man, I must have let you have all the milk when we were little_ , or  _guess you have to do what I say now, huh_? but then an awful thought comes to Dean, and he's not even sure why it's so awful except that it is. "You didn't… Sam, you didn't make a deal for me, did you? To bring me back?"

The green eyes open so wide Dean thinks he might see into Sam's brain - which would be nice, actually. He's getting tired of trying to get into this guy's head.

"No," Sam denies emphatically. "No. I didn't, Dean, I swear." He pauses, looks away. "…No demon would deal," he says lowly, the  _I'm sorry_ implied.

_Meaning you tried_ , Dean thinks, and just the idea makes him sick to his stomach.

"Good," he replies forcefully, relieved, although he doesn't even know why he's so affected by this. There's no way he would do it again; he barely knows Sam, and God, hell must have  _sucked_. "Good," he repeats, and adds, "I'm glad."

Sam's face screws up weirdly.

"You're an idiot," he chokes out hoarsely, hands bunching up his jeans at the knees.

Dean smirks a little. "Whatever, pretty sure I can get by on my looks," he says, heading back to his chair, pausing on the way to reach out a hand to ruffle the messy brown hair (because he's the older brother, damn it). "Don't worry, man, I'll let you be the brains of the family."

Sam stares. "How -" he blurts, cuts himself off, tries again. "God, how can you be…?"

"So awesome? Yeah, I wonder that too sometimes."

And apparently that's it for Sam, because Dean only gets to glimpse a blur of long legs unfurling before a stone wall in a plaid shirt crashes into him and he's squeezed so tightly his ribs seem to squeal in protest. His nose is mashed up against Sam's broad and bony shoulders, and his shirt pulls tight when big hands grip and clench onto the fabric.

He breathes in. Sam's unfamiliar scent fills his nostrils – he smells like sun and sweat and paper – but somehow it suits, and he doesn't really mind.

He hesitates a bit before awkwardly returning the hug, because after all, this means a lot more to Sam than it does to him and something that about seems unfair. It feels like he's hugging a stranger, at first, except then he remembers the forlorn but hopeful look in Sam's eyes and then it kind of feels like he's keeping Sam together, almost like he's comforting a little kid.

A huge, strange, broken little kid he doesn't even know.

Sam heaves a silent sniff against Dean's neck, and there's a wetness sliding down his nape that kind of tickles. This is all kinds of weird, Dean thinks, and not all that manly besides, but he lets it go, makes sure his hold on Sam isn't too loose or too tight, except his hands somehow know what to do without even trying.

He's glad he can't see Sam's face, though, because there are some things he already knows he doesn't want to handle.

Sam -  _Scowly_ \- crying is one of them.

"…Sorry I came back wrong, Sammy," he whispers roughly into the plaid, lets himself, because after all, Sam can't see Dean's face, either.

Sam doesn't say a word, but the steel arms tighten.

"Memories or no, boy," Bobby says with finality, watching them, "it's good to have you back."

 

* * *

 

Sun hits his eyelids, turning his world a warm, pulsing shade of red. He wakes up grudgingly; the naps he stole in the Impala really haven't done any wonders for his neck, and Bobby's guest bed is goddamn ergonomic compared to the car. Say what you will about the man, but his beds are almost worth the ten hour drives and crappy beers.

A yawn escapes his mouth, but he still throws off the thick blanket he'd cocooned himself with during the night and sits up. He absently scratches his chest as he ponders whether to take a shower or go downstairs and see what the guys are up to - the other bed in the room's empty, and he has a sneaky suspicion that it's not exactly six in the morning. Maybe six in the afternoon.

He stretches his arms, eyes crinkling as another yawn takes over his face. His skin feels a little slimy, sweaty.

 

Shower it is.

He dodders to the bathroom like a reluctant preschooler getting ready for school. Or maybe more like an old man getting ready for his sponge bath. Anyway. His eyes are barely open as he strips off his jeans and boxers and loses himself under the spray of water. The water's scalding in a comforting kind of way, if that makes any sense, and he stays like that, head tilted back and mouth slightly open, until his fingers are pruny and the bathroom's so steamy he can hardly breathe.

There's a towel on the counter, and thank God – or more likely, Bobby – for that, because he sure as hell hadn't been thinking ahead when he decided to take a shower, and the two men aren't exactly the kind of audience he wants to give a free show to. Or any kind of show, really.

He walks back into his room, and finds himself somewhat speechless when he notices the clothes neatly folded up on his bed. They're his size – he checks – and he hasn't done a whole lot of thinking about the subject, but they look just like something he might wear.

The unexpectedly thoughtful gesture totally doesn't knock him off his feet, he decides manfully. He's owed clothes that don't smell like dirt and sweat, thank you very much, and besides, it's probably better for everyone if he doesn't stink to high heaven. This is totally just practicality, nothing else to it.

He dries himself off, legs first, snickers at the image of big, grouchy Bobby folding laundry. He moves to his arms, amusing himself with the thought that maybe it was big, grouchy Sam –

His hand jerks back as if stung.

…The fuck.

...The  _fuck_?!

There's a completely out-of-place handprint –  _hand_ print _,_ print of a _HAND_  – sticking out like a sore right on his shoulder.

His fingers run over it cautiously, feeling out the bumps, the raised red skin. It looks recent, raw. Ugly. It looks like it should hurt.

More importantly, though, it looks like it's  _not supposed to be there_.

He makes himself breathe, slow down his heart rate.  _Easy there_ , _Not-a-Zombie_.  _Maybe you had a weird hand fetish before you died_.  _Maybe this is just the result of really,_ really  _great sex_.

Yeah, right. Unless he's been messing around with Bigfoot – and he's pretty sure he remembers Sam being clear last night about Bigfoot not existing, right along with Santa and unicorns and the Easter Bunny – Not-a-Zombie's relatively sure this has nothing to do with sex whatsoever. Sex is awesome, sex makes you feel good (so okay, he doesn't remember having sex, exactly, but he's just gonna go with his instincts on this one), sex does  _not_  leave fucking huge handprint on your left deltoid.

That is, unless he's forgotten some crucial fundamentals about sex, somewhere between dying and coming back.

...He's pretty sure that's not the case.

Like,  _really_  pretty sure.

Maybe, he thinks suddenly, it's a souvenir of wherever he went when he died –  _hell_ hell, if Sam and Bobby are to be believed – like a signature, proof that Satan or whatever had a claim on his soul, left its handprint on him, as the saying goes.

The thought almost bowls him over with the urge to punch something, preferably whoever's in charge upstairs.

...Great.

His life's a fucking joke.

 

* * *

 

It's not until he puts on a shirt that he realizes that he can't remember his name.

And for the first time that he can remember, Not-a-Zombie kind of wants to cry.

**Author's Note:**

> Confession time, my sole reason for starting this monster was just to put the line 'holy shit, I think I'm a zombie' in proper context.


End file.
